


Take me south, take me home

by magpie_03



Series: Down the mountain range of my left-side brain [10]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Depression, Epilepsy, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mood Swings, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_03/pseuds/magpie_03
Summary: This fic fits right between "nothing good comes from being gone" and "this is my loss of love, my loss of limb." It's about Tyler's experience on an acute psychiatric ward.I originally had planned to write this story in one go but changed my mind and decided to write chapters as I go along. I don't know how frequent or long the updates are going to be because my brain tends to spiral out of control but I'll try my best.This story has a HUGE trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, self-harm and everything else related to self-destruction. This fic could also be triggering for anyone who has been to an acute psychiatric ward or anyone who has been in some kind of acute mental health crisis. Please be cautious.





	1. Brain and bones, lungs and teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on my phone so please excuse the occasional typo.

_Kick at a pillow till it makes you tired_

_Tired_

It's not like in novels or movies. You don’t get to meet up with a kind, understanding and caring therapist who has a really cozy office. You don't wrap yourself in a fleece blanket, put your hands around a steaming mug of tea and calmly reflect on your troubling thoughts while a single tear runs down your cheek. 

It's not like that.

There are no words for this kind of sadness, this kind of feeling. Not wanting to live anymore. You look at your life and it feels so impossible, so insignificant and impossible, you dream about crushing it with the palm of your hand. You dream about blood that's running down your wrists.

It yanks the rug from underneath your feet. It unearths you. 

Remembering all of this feels like you're watching a film. The quality is awful, the image is grainy, and you are the main character.

It's just plainly horrifying. You are the main character and you have no control.

You watch yourself kick and scream at the nursing staff as you get admitted to the acute psychiatric ward. There's no sign that says WELCOME TO THE PSYCH WARD or something like that. There are no people in straightjakets. There's just a door and it doesn't open.

Welcome to your new life, a life you genuinely don't want.

The door buzzes open. The police officers drag you to the nurse’s office, an office that is all plexiglass and no privacy. As soon as they are gone and the handcuffs are off there's only one impulse, only one thought: LEG IT.

You only make it as far as the hallway. It quickly fills up with nurses. A few patients peek their disshelved heads out of their rooms.

GET AWAY FROM ME GET AWAY GET AWAY

"Let's go back inside, Tyler."

I'M NOT STAYING HERE GET AWAY

It's like watching a movie. It's unreal.

LET ME OUT

You watch yourself bang your head against the walls. You hit the plaxiglass with your fists. It's all in your head and it's coming from everywhere.

You can't let them own you. You can't let them own you.

The nurses step back. Their voices voices are strangely calm and low as if you're a wild animal they're supposed to catch.

LET ME OUT

"Tyler, we need you to calm down first."

GET AWAY FROM ME

"Calm down. You're going to hurt yourself."

GET AWAY GET AWAY

GET AWAY FROM ME GET AWAY

GET AWAY FROM ME

GET AWAY FROM ME

DON'T TOUCH ME

The attending psychiatrist comes rushing to the scene. He talks and talks but his gravelly voice is not enough to drown out the roar of your thoughts. You stare at his mouth, his lips.He's spitting out words you don't understand and he won't stop. Suddenly, a realization hits you in the chest. You stumble backwards, your head spinning from the impact. Your thoughts go round and round, up and down, back and forth.

_They know_

_He knows_

_They're coming to get me_

_I need to get away_

_I need to get away_

You try to get to the door but two nurses are blocking the door, they know too, they're all complicit, they all --

NO

NO

LET ME OUT

_Snap snap_

GET OFF ME GET OFF

"Tyler, I'm going to give you something that will calm you down, oaky?"

NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

This is the roar of a soul that was ready to let go and got yanked back.

"Sharp scratch..."

A needle, a pinch.

"No...."

Your voice dies down. Everything becomes slow and thick, muted and dulled. They muted your mind with a little pharmaceutical help. Your tongue turns into a useless slab of meat in your mouth.

"Nnnnnn...."

Useless.

Voices in the distance. The blue gloves have mouths and they talk and talk and talk.

_I sedated him with Pipamperone, he should be out for a couple of hours._

_No that won't be necessary. One to one observation. The police picked him up, boyfriend found him, he wrote a note. He's a 10.  
_

_Vitals too. He's epileptic._

_I'll request the file in the meantime. Neurology, right? Tyler Robert Joseph, born December 1, 1988?"_

You hear your name and it feels like they're talking about a different person. Complete disconnect.

A blue glove touches you on your shoulder, bringing you back.

"Tyler, let's get you to your room, okay? We will let you rest."

Your brain weights a ton. All that's holding your head on your shoulders is a delicate string of memories and fear. You nod slowly. The images shake back and forth, back and forth.

You can't walk properly. Your limbs are so heavy you almost feel weightless. As if there's nothing holding you on this earth, nothing but the weight of your own mind.

They escort you to the "crisis room" which is attached to the nurse's office and has a big window instead of a wall. No furniture other than a bed with a matress. No toilet. No window, no view. You’re the view now, the spectacle.

They lie you on the bed, on your stomach, feet pointing towards the door. A male nurse pats you down. Another nurse yanks the shoelaces out of your shoes. A third one stands guard and watches.

For Tyler the entire world is dangerous, for the hospital staff it's Tyler who's the danger. To himself. To others. When Tyler first got diagnosed with epilepsy he was scared of anything with a sharp edge for fear of seizures and injuries. Now he can't stop thinking about them, about sharp edges and what he could with them. His mind one big gaping wound.

"Are you sure there's nothing in the hoodie? He's got his hands inside the sleeves. Looks like he's hiding something."

If you could you would. Safety pins shoved up your sleeve, a pin hidden deep inside your pockets. You need to arm yourself against your thoughts.

You can feel blue-gloved fingers up your sleeve but there's nothing except flesh and bones, skin and scars. You've got nothing sharp in here. Just your thoughts and they can't take them away.

"No, there's nothing in here..."

"Look, the hoodie has strings..."

"Just take it off, it'll be easier."

_Don't take the hoodie away don't take the hoodie away don't don't don't_

You want to protest, scream. You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out. The hoodie doesn't belong to them, it belongs to you. It's Josh's and Josh is yours alone.

"Anything else?"

You can feel the fabric slip through your fingers. Your mind is mute now. Emptied out.

"That's it."

They pull the hoodie over your head and take it away, together with your shoelaces, your belt and all your other belongings. The only things you still have are the socks on your feet. Socks and clothes that won't keep you warm. A jeans, a t-shirt. You are exposed. Blue-gloved fingers turn your arms.

"Are these fresh cuts?"

"No, it's all scar tissue here..."

"You sure he isn't hiding anything?"

"No, he's clean, I checked him. We're done here."

"Alright, let's go."

They stomp out of the room. They don't look back.

"I'll let you go back to sleep, okay, Tyler?" The nurse who's been watching you and not saying anything rubs your arm. You don't respond or look at her. You're on the psych ward now. You're past social niceties.

The door clicks shut.

You roll into a ball. Legs against your abdomen, forehead on your knees. You hug yourself even though you've got no kindness for this body, this life. You're trying to keep warm, you're trying to hold on but your skin is porose and the silence is everywhere, thick and solid, heavy and dull. It feels like someone poured cement into your brain and bones.That's all you are now: brain and bones, lungs and teeth. You fantasize about ripping out your organs, one by one. It's the only reality that feels bearable. The only reality you can live with. A reality you can't make real, not now. Not in this room. Not in this body.

There's no life in this body. There's no life in this room.

There's no pillow or blanket either. Can you kill yourself with a blanket? You brain screams yes but your body whispers _please just let me sleep._

You've kicked yourself long enough.

You're tired.

Just tired.

From your bed you can make out the shape of the head of a nurse who's sitting right in front of the window on the other side, doing nothing but observing you. The drug they gave you can lower the seizure threshold, you have a history of epilepsy and you are "actively suicidal."

They know a lot about you. You don't even know their names.

You're stuck in a room with a window but no view. A body but no life.

There's a nurse whose sole task is to keep you alive.

Psych patient privilege. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of background:   
> Where I come from (Europe) acute psychiatric wards/units are called "protected wards" or sometimes also "protecting wards," with the idea being that the purpose of the ward is to protect patients from themselves and others. It's still an acute/closed unit, just a different and supposedly "less stigmatizing" name. Oh well.
> 
> Over here you can get sectioned if you have a severe mental illness and a) you don't have any insight into your illness and are a danger to yourself or b) you are a danger to others. However, the hospital is legally required to get a court order no later than 24 hours after you have been admitted. The actual time span for hospitalization varies a lot, sometimes it's 24 hours, sometimes 72 hours and sometimes it's up to 6 weeks (maximum). It's a tremendously difficult time.
> 
> Some hospitals (like the hospital I was in) work with a 10 point system to assess a patient‘s suicidality. So sentences like “he’s a 10” refer to a patient's suicide risk.


	2. Newborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter. As usual, trigger warnings apply (this one has a trigger warning for eating disorders too).

The memories come disguised as dreams. Conversations he had with Josh, words they exchanged, looks. Fingers that knew how to hold him. Josh's breath on his skin. It feels a lot realer now. Returning to the world when you tried to kill yourself is a lot like being born. You are forced back into the world, you are spit out, eyes squinting, mouth wide open. You're taking that precious, first breath and you're coming back for more, crying and screaming until your lungs are burning, except it's no longer cute because you're not a squealing newborn.

It's no longer a celebration of life. It's fear of death.

It's fearing it and craving it, both at once. A rabbit and a dog. His soul is sick and scared, scared and scarred, scarred and hiding, beady eyes wide.

_You could have died if it hadn't been for Josh.  
_

His life no longer worthy of celebration. No one sends flowers or cards to the psych ward. People send their pity instead. _I heard_ T _yler has been admitted to a psychiatric hospital. How tragic._

Now he's a soul that isn't to be trusted. He's no longer afforded the luxury of privacy. He's to be supervised at all times. No sharp objects.

And even though it transported him right back to puberty, right after his epilepsy diagnosis when his parents insisted on Tyler taking showers instead of baths and leaving the bathroom door ajar. They even bought a babyphone so that they could catch nocturnal seizures and when Tyler found out, he screamed at his parents until his throat went raw. But he wasn't himself back then.

He still doesn't feel like he's himself and there's no such thing as choice now. And even though he resists all the ways in which control is taken away from him - he's not even allowed to have, much less enjoy his five-minute-shower unsupervised and the nurses check his mouth after each med time because he's "noncompliant with his medication," a tiny part inside himself is secretly relieved about the level of control and protection. He doesn't know whom to trust anymore and that includes himself.

"Tyler! Time to get up! Lunch time is almost over! Come on!"

A nurse stands in the doorway. He named her yelly nurse because that's what she does, barking each order like an officer in the army. This would be the time to get up and salute but he's no soldier, not anymore. He's caught in the trenches of his mind and he's tired of being dragged through the mud.

He's tired. So tired.

Yelly nurse takes a step forward.

Tyler gets up slowly. Stars right before his eyes. Dizziness. His body is tired, too. He takes each step carefully and steadies himself against the frame of the bed. His blood pressure is too low and he has trouble walking, probably a combined side effect of his new medication and his anticonvulsant. Or else his body had enough, a side effect of not wanting to live anymore.

Yelly nurse walks him to the lunch room. Tyler wobbles. On the neurology ward he could steady himself with the help of railings on the walls and Josh who always kept a hand on the small of his back. How fitting that word is. The small of your back. As if there's only one place where touch truly matters. And it's true, he laughed with Josh about the wobbly gait as if he was a toddler wearing shoes two sizes too big, making him look like he has MS instead of epilepsy. Other people would have found it horrifying to watch but they laughed during the hard times and held each other close.

Not now. He's on the psych ward and there are no railings. People are expected to be sick in their heads here and not in their bodies.

He can see a few patients linger in the hallway. When you have so little control over your life leaning against a wall after lunch turns into an act of resistance, right before a nurse shoos you into your room for lunch break. This isn't life except it is. It's the edge of life, frayed and unraveled. It's life coming apart at the seams.

"Alright, here we go..."

They left a tray with food for Tyler. Extended naps and staff shortages do have benefits, now he can eat without getting distracted by the noise and clamor of other patients.

Yelly nurse lifts the lid of the tray as if she's about to reveal a grand meal instead of overcooked spaghetti on a plastic plate, a set of plastic cutlery, a plastic cup, and jello in a tiny plastic bowl complete with a plastic teaspoon. Tyler is pretty sure that acute psychiatric wards are responsible for at least a quarter of plastic waste in the ocean. Who needs planet earth when you've got a life to save.

Tyler ignores yelly nurse who takes a seat right next to him and grabs the fork with shaky fingers. Tremor. He's no longer a soldier. He's a newborn with a body that's been around the block.

You doesn't need fine motor skills to eat this though. The food is so overcooked you can practically eat it with a spoon anyway.

Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. Tyler focuses on the mechancs of eating to drown out the voice that started whispering inside his mind, talking him into hiding the knife in his sleeve because even though it's plastic and probably as sharp as a toy knife there's a lot you can do with it. There's a lot you can do with a plastic knife when you're desperate enough. When the pressure inside is building up and you're starting to feel exhilarated in your own ability to hurt yourself. When you're far away and pain is the only thing that brings you back.

Bite, chew, swallow.

Breathe.

Bite, chew, swallow.

Breathe.

Bite, chew, swallow.

Breathe.

Swallow swallow swallow.

A loud sob. Instinctively Tyler wipes the corner of his eyes but finds them dry. Oh, it's not that. It's _her._ There's ghost girl in the corner, a fellow patient with an eating disorder who takes twice as much time as everyone else during meals and rarely finishes them. She doesn't even look like a patient. She looks like a ghost, a ghost who wears several sweaters and still shivers, a ghost whose fingernails and lips are blue, a ghost who's cold all the time and yet drinks gallons of ice water because it burns calories and fills you up. A ghost who doesn’t haunt other people or their houses - this ghost cries into her pasta and haunts herself.

She has her own nurse too, a stern woman who sits right next to her and pushes the plate into her direction, urging her to "try a few bites" but the girl just shakes her head and buries her face in her hands. Her knuckles are scarred and scraped.

If this wouldn't be the psych ward Tyler would get up and tell her that food tastes twice as bad if you cry into it. Salty tears and snot isn't a spice and even if it were no one would want it. But this isn't another hospital ward, it's not even regular life, and he's not supposed to talk to another patient durings meals. So he digs through the noodles, wordlessly. How fragile your world must be if a plate of spaghetti is enough to make you burst into tears.

...

Lunch is officially over. He waves a small goodbye to ghost girl (who still sits with her head bowed over her plate) and follows the nurse to the nurse's station. Meds. The new routine is already drilled into his bones. They put him on a new medication. Tyler can’t remember the name or what it's for. It comes in drops, drops measured in tiny plastic cups. There are a lot of them. Drops after breakfast, drops after lunch, drops after dinner. He's no longer a newborn. He's a dog now, an obedient dog that follows orders and waits for a treat that never comes. He's a child, a child whose days are structured by heavily medicated naps. Pharmaceutical kindness for the desperate.

Swallow swallow swallow even though he doesn't recognize the medications. He opens his mouth (still somewhat reluctantly) so that the nurse can shine a small flashlight into his mouth. He fought the nurses tooth and nail when they first wanted to check his mouth. It felt degrading, humilitating, even for psych ward standards. He couldn't let them own him, couldn't let them win. He screamed and threw the plastic cups into their faces until the pychiatrist came and gave him a choice: either take his medication or it'll be restrains plus an injection against his will.

A needle, a pinch.

Swallow, swallow, swallow.

Sleep sleep sleep.

It’s all dulled now. His thoughts are less like a pair of shoes someone's thrown into a dryer and more like snowflakes melting on an ocean. A body of water retreating to where it came from. Freezing and melting, again and again.

The anxiety and delusions have retreated into the far back of his mind. Now there’s nothing left but your own inevitable terrifying silence. Like someone pressed the pause button in your mind and all you can do is to press your ear against the wall of your skull and listen.

Tyler stumbles back to his room, a ringing in his ears like waves breaking on a beach far away. He longs for another nap, for the memories to come back, to flood this empty body, this empty brain. Fingers that knew how to hold him. Josh's breath on his skin. Their foreheads touching. Escimo kisses in the morning. They were in their own microcosm, always. Not caring what anybody thought. Fighting off other people's pity with the only thing they knew, the only thing that mattered: their affection for each other.

The bed is unmade and there's Josh's hoodie waiting for him. The nurses returned his clothes back to him and made him move into a new room - privileges of staying alive. The room gives him a little more privacy, he's got 15 minutes until a nurse peeks through the door. It's not enough though, it's never enough. Tyler rolls up undernath a thin hospital blanket and lets the smell of Josh rock him back to sleep.


End file.
